LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


••1 


Drama  Without  Words 


H.K   U    MENCKEN 

n\ 


JOHN  W.  LUCE  &  COMPANY 
BOSTON      *  1912 


Copyright,  1909,  by 

Tne  Bolieir.ian  Publishing  Company 

Copyright,  1912,  by 

Henry   L.   Mencken 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


A  Great  Pianist 

A  Janitor 

Six  Musical  Critics 

A  Married  Woman 

A    Virgin 

Sixteen-hundred  and  f 01  ty -three 

Other  Women 
Six  Other  Men 

TIME 
A  December  Afternoon 

PLACE 

A  City  of  the 
United  States 


c^IOTE 

During  the  action  of  the  play  not  a  word  is 
uttered  aloud.  All  the  speeches  of  the  charac- 
ters are  supposed  to  be  unspoken  meditations. 


large,  gloomy  hall,  with  many  rows  of 
uncushioned,  uncomfortable  seats,  de- 
signed, it  would  seem,  by  some  one  mis- 
informed as  to  the  average  ividth  of  the 
normal  human  pelvis.  A  number  of 
busts  of  celebrated  composers,  once  white, 
but  ?iow  a  dirty  gray,  stand  in  niches 
along  the  walls.  At  one  end  of  the  hall 
there  is  a  bare,  uncarpeted  stage,  with 
nothing  on  it  save  a  grand  piano  and  a 
chair.  It  is  raining  outside,  and,  as 
hundreds  of  people  come  crowding  in, 
the  air  is  laden  with  the  mingled  scents 
of  umbrellas,  raincoats,  goloshes ',  cos- 
metics, perfumery  and  wet  hair. 
.At  eight  minutes  past  four,  the  Janitor,  after 
smoothing  his  hair  with  his  hands  and 
putting  on  a  pair  of  detachable  cuffs,  e- 
merges  from  the  wings  and  crosses  the 
[11] 


stage,  his  shoes  squeaking  hideously  at 
each  step.  Arriving  at  the  piano,  he 
opens  it  with  solemn  slowness.  The  job 
seems  so  absurdly  trivial,  even  to  so 
mean  an  understanding,  that  he  cant 
refrain  from  glorifying  it  with  a  bit  of 
hocus-pocus.  This  takes  the  form  of  a 
careful  adjustment  of  a  mysterious  some- 
thing within  the  instrument.  He 
reaches  in,  pauses  a  moment  as  if  in 
doubt,  reaches  in  again,  and  then  per- 
mits  a  faint  smile  of  conscious  sapience 
and  efficiency  to  illuminate  his  face. 
All  of  this  accomplished,  he  tiptoes  back 
to  the  wings,  his  shoes  again  squeaking* 

THE  JANITOR 

c!7^ow  all  of  them  people  think  I'm  the 
professor's  tuner. 

[  The  thought  gives  him  such  delight  that, 
for  a    moment,    his   brain  is  numbed* 
Then   he  proceeds^ 

I  guess  them    tuners   make    pretty   good 
[12] 


money.     I  wish  I  could  get  the  hang  of 
the  trick.     It  looks  easy0. 

[By  this  time  he  has  disappeared  in  the 
wings  and  the  stage  is  again  a  des- 
ert. Two  or  three  women,  far  back 
in  the  hall,  start  a  half -hearted  hand- 
clapping.  It  dies  out  at  once.  The 
noise  of  rustling  programmes  and 
shuffling  feet  succeeds  it.  ] 

FOUR  HUNDRED  OF  THE  WOMEN 
Oh,  I  do  certainly  hope  he  plays  that 
lovely  Valse  Poupee  as  an  encore  1     They 
say  he  does  it  better  than  Bloomfield-Zei- 
sler». 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS 
I  hope  the  animal  doesn't  pull  any  en- 
core numbers  that  I  don't  recognize.    cAH 
of  these  people  will  buy  the  paper  to- 
morrow  morning  just  to   find   out  what 
they  have  heard.     It's  infernally  embar- 
rassing to  have  to  ask  the  manager.     The 
[13] 


public  expects  a  musical  critic  to  be  a  sort 
of  walking  thematic  catalogue.  The  pub- 
lic is  an  ass. 

THE  SIX  OTHER  MEN 

Oh,  Lord !  What  a  way  to  spend  an 
afternoon ! 

A  HUNDRED  OF  THE  WOMEN 

I  wonder  if  he's  as  handsome  as  Pade- 
rewski. 

ANOTHER  HUNDRED  OF  THE  WOMEN 

I  wonder  if  he's  as  gentlemanly  as  Josef 

Hofmann. 

STILL  ANOTHER  HUNDRED  WOMEN 

I  wonder  if  he's  as  fascinating  as  De 
Pachmann. 

YET  OTHER  HUNDREDS 

I  wonder  if  he  has  dark  eyes.  You  ne- 
ver can  tell  by  those  awful  photographs  in 
the  newspapers. 

[14] 


HALF  A  DOZEN  WOMEN 
I  wonder  if  he  can  really  play  the  piano. 

THE  CRITIC  AFORESAID 
What  a  hell  of  a  long  wait !  These  rot- 
ten piano -thumping  immigrants  deserve  a 
hard  call -down.  But  what's  the  use  ? 
The  piano  manufacturers  bring  them  over 
here  to  wallop  their  pianos—  and  the  pi- 
ano manufacturers  are  not  afraid  to  ad- 
vertise. If  you  knock  them  too  hard  you 
have  a  nasty  business-office  row  on  your 
hands. 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN 

If  they  allowed  smoking,  it  wouldn't  be 
so  bad. 

ANOTHER  MAN 

I    wonder  if    that  woman    across  the 
aisle— 

[The  Great  Pianist  bounces  upon  the  stage 
so  suddenly  that  he  is  bowing  in  the 
[15] 


center  before  any  one  thinks  to  ap- 
plaud. He  makes  three  stiff  bows. 
At  the  second  the  applause  begins, 
swelling  at  once  to  a  roar.  He  steps 
up  to  the  piano,  bows  three  times 
more,  and  then  sits  down .  He  hunch- 
es his  shoulders,  reaches  for  the  pedals 
with  his  feet,  spreads  out  his  hands 
and  waits  for  the  clapper-clawing  to 
cease.  He  is  an  undersized,  paunchy 
East  German,  with  hair  the  color  of 
wet  hay,  and  an  extremely  pallid  com- 
plexion. Talcum  powder  hides  the 
fact  that  his  nose  is  shiny  and  some- 
what pink.  His  eyebrows  are  care- 
fully pencilled  and  there  are  artificial 
shadows  under  his  eyes.  His  face  is 
absolutely  expressionless.  ~\ 

THE  VIRGIN 

Oh! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMEN 

Oh! 

[16] 


THE  OTHER  WOMEN 

Oh  !     How  dreadfully  handsome  I 

THE  VIRGIN 

Oh,  such  eyes  !  Such  depth  !  How  he 
must  have  suffered  !  I'd  like  to  hear  him 
play  the  Prelude  in  D-flat  major.  It  would 
drive  you  crazy ! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 
How  he  could  play  the  Moonlight— or 
the  Appassionata ! 

A  HUNDRED  OTHER  WOMEN 

I  certainly  do  hope  he  plays  some  Schu- 
mann. 

OTHER  WOMEN 

What  beautiful  hands  !  I  could  kiss 
them! 

[The  great  Pianist,    throwing   back  his 
head,     strikes    the   massive  opening 
chords  of  a  Beethoven  sonata.      There 
[17] 


is  a  sudden  hush  and  each  note  is 
heard  clearly.  The  tempo  of  the  first 
movement,  which  begins  after  a 
grand  pause,  is  allegro  con  brio>  and 
the  first  subject  is  given  out  in  a 
sparkling  cascade  of  sound.  But  de- 
spite the  buoyancy  of  the  music,  there 
is  an  unmistakable  undercurrent  of 
melancholy  in  the  play  ing .  The  a  ud- 
ience  doesn't  fail  to  notice  //.] 

THE  VIRGIN 

Oh,  perfect !  I  could  love  him !  Pad- 
erewski  played  it  like  a  barn  dance.  What 
poetry  he  puts  into  it !  I  can  see  a  soldier 
lover  marching  off  to  war  . . .  and  throwing 
kisses  to  his  sweetheart . . . 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS 

The  ass  is  dragging  it.     Doesn't  con  brio 

mean— well,  what  the  devil  does  it  mean  ? 

I  forget.     I  must  look  it  up  before  I  write 

the    notice.       Somehow,     brio   suggests 

[18] 


cheese.  Anyhow,  Pachmann  plays  it  a 
damn  sight  faster.  It's  safe  to  say  that, 
at  all  events. 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 

Oh,  I  could  listen  to  that  sonata  all  day ! 
The  poetry  he  puts  into  it— even  into  the 
allegro  \  Just  think  what  the  andante  will 
be  !  I  like  music  to  be  sad. 

ANOTHER  WOMAN 

What  a  sob  he  gets  into  it ! 

MANY  OTHER  WOMEN 
How  exquisite ! 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

\_Gathering  himself  together  for  the  difficult 
development  section .] 

That  American  beer  will  be  the  death 

of  me !      I  wonder  what  they  put  in  it  to 

give  it  that  gassy  taste.     And  the  so-called 

German  beer  they   sell  over  here— good 

[19] 


Lord !  Even  Bremen  would  be  ashamed 
of  it.  In  Munchen  the  police  would  take 
a  hand. 

[Aiming  for  the  first  and  second  C's  above 
the  staff,  he  accidentally  strikes  the  C 
sharps  instead  and  has  to  transpose 
three  measures  to  get  back  into  the  key. 
The  effect  is  harrowing,  and  he  gives 
his  audience  a  swift  glance  of  appre- 
hension.^. 

TWO  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  WOMEN 

What  new  beauties  he  gets  out  of  it ! 

A   MAN 

He  can  tickle  the  ivories,   all  right,  all 
right! 

A  CRITIC 

Well,  at  any  rate,  he  doesn't  try  to  imi- 
tate Paderewski. 

[20] 


THE  GREAT   PIANIST 

[Relieved  by  the  non-appearance  of  the  hisses 
he  expecled.~\ 

Well,  it's  lucky  for  me  that  I'm  not  in 
Leipzig  today  !  But  in  Leipzig  an  artist 
runs  no  risks :  the  beer  is  pure.  The 
authorities  see  to  that.  The  worst  enemy 
of  technique  is  biliousness,  and  biliousness 
is  sure  to  follow  bad  beer. 

[He  gets  to  the  coda  at  last  and  takes  it  at  a 
somewhat  livelier  pace.  ] 

THE  VIRGIN 

How  I  envy  the  woman  he  loves  !  How 
it  would  thrill  me  to  feel  his  arms  about 
me— to  be  drawn  closer,  closer,  closer ! 
I  would  give  up  the  whole  world !  What 
are  conventions,  prejudices,  legal  forms, 
morality,  after  all  ?  Vanities !  Love  is  be- 
yond and  above  them  all— and  art  is  love  ! 
I  think  I  must  be  a  pagan. 
[21] 


cArtist 


THE  GREAT    PIANIST 

And  the  herring !  Good  God,  what  her- 
ring !  These  infernal  cAmericans— 

THE  VIRGIN 

Really,  I  am  quite  indecent !  I  should 
blush,  I  suppose.  But  love  is  never  a- 
shamed—  How  people  misunderstand 
me ! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 
I  wonder  if  he's  faithful.     The  chances 
are  against  it.     I  never  heard   of  a  man 
who  was. 

\_An  agreeable  melancholy  overcomes  her  and 
she  gives  herself  up  to  the  mood  with- 
out further  thought.^ 

THE  GREAT   PIANIST 

I  wonder  what  ever  became  of  that  girl 

in   Dresden.     Every  time   I  think  of  her, 

she    suggests    pleasant     thoughts— good 

beer,  a  fine  band,  gemuethlichkeit.   I  must 

[22] 


*        ^fie  Artist        * 

have  been  in  love  with  her— not  much,  of 
course,  but  just  enough  to  make  things 
pleasant.  And  not  a  single  letter  from  her ! 
I  suppose  she  thinks  I'm  starving  to  death 
over  here — or  tuning  pianos.  Well,  when 
I  get  back  with  the  money  there'll  be  a 
shock  for  her.  A  shock— but  not  a 
pfennig! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 
\_ffer  emotional  coma  ended.  ] 

Still,  you  can  hardly  blame  him.  There 
must  be  a  good  deal  of  temptation  for  a 
great  artist.  All  of  these  frumps  here 
would — 

THE  VIRGIN 

Ah,  how  dolorous,  how  exquisite  is 
love!  How  small  the  world  would  seem 
if— 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 
Of  course  you  could  hardly  call  such  old 
scarecrows  temptations.     But  still — 
123J 


[  The  Great  Pianist  comes  to  the  last  measure 
of  the  coda— a  passage  of  almost 
Haydnesque  clarity  and  spirit.  As 
he  strikes  the  broad  chord  of  the  tonic 
there  comes  a  roar  of  applause.  He 
arises,  moves  a  step  or  two  down  the 
stage,  and  makes  a  series  of  low  bows, 
his  hands  to  his  heart. ] 

THE  GREAT   PIANIST 

[Bowing. ,]  I  wonder  why  the  American 
women  always  wear  raincoats  to  piano  re- 
citals. Even  when  the  sun  is  shining 
brightly,  one  sees  hundreds  of  them. 
What  a  disagreeable  smell  they  give  to 
the  hall.  \_More  applause  and  more  bows.~\ 
An  American  audience  always  smells  of 
rubber  and  lilies-of-the-valley.  How  dif- 
ferent in  London  !  There  an  audience  al- 
ways smells  of  soap.  In  Paris  it  reminds 
you  of  sachet  bags — and  lingerie. 
[  The  applause  ceases  and  he  returns  to  the 

piano.~\ 

And  now  comes  that  damned  adagio. 
[24] 


[As  he  begins  to  play,  a    deathlike  silence 
falls  upon  the  hall.~\ 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS 
What  rotten  pedaling ! 

ANOTHER  CRITIC 

A  touch  like  a  xylophone  player,  but  he 
knows  how  to  use  his  feet.  That  suggests 
a  good  line  for  the  notice— * 'he  plays  bet- 
ter with  his  feet  than  with  his  hands," 
or  something  like  that.  I'll  have  to  think 
it  over  and  polish  it  up. 

ONE  OF  THE  OTHER  MEN 

Now  comes  some  more  of  that  awful 
classical  stuff. 

THE  VIRGIN 

Suppose  he  can't  speak  English?     But 
that  wouldn't  matter.     Nothing  matters. 
Love  is  beyond  and  above — 
[25] 


SIX  HUNDRED  WOMEN 

Oh,  how  beautiful ! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 

Perfect ! 

THE  DEAN  OF  THE  CRITICS 
\_Sinking  quickly  into    the   slumber    which 
always  overtakes    him    during    the 

a  dag 'io. .] 

C-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h! 

THE  YOUNGEST  CRITIC 

There  is  that  old  fraud  asleep  again. 
And  tomorrow  he'll  print  half  a  column  of 
vapid  reminiscence  and  call  it  criticism. 
It's  a  wonder  his  paper  stands  for  him. 
Because  he  once  heard  Liszt,  he  seems  to- 
be  a  privileged  character. 

THE  GREAT   PIANIST 
That   plump  girl   over   on   the    left   is 
not  so  bad.     As  for  the  rest,  I  beg  to  be 
[26] 


cArtist 


excused.  The  American  women  have  no 
more  shape  than  so  many  matches.  They 
are  too  tall  and  too  thin.  I  like  a  nice 
rubbery  armful— like  that  Dresden  girl. 
Or  that  harpist  in  Moscow— the  girl  with 
the  Pilsner  hair.  Let  me  see,  what  was 
her  name?  Oh,  Fritzi,  to  be  sure— but 
her  last  name?  Schmidt?  Kraus?  Meyer? 
I'll  have  to  try  to  think  of  it,  and  send  her 
a  postcard. 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 

What  delicious  flutelike  tones  ! 

ONE  OF  THE  WOMEN 
If  Beethoven  could  only  be  here  to  hear 
it!     He  would  cry  for  very  joy!     Maybe 
he  does  hear  it.     Who  knows  ?     I  believe 
he  does.     I  am  sure  he  does. 

[  The  Great  Pianist  reaches  the  end  of  the 
adagio,  and  there  is  another  burst  of 
applause,  which  awakens  the  Dean  of 
the  Critics.  ~\ 

[27] 


THE  DEAN  OF  THE  CRITICS 

Oh,  piffle!  Compared  to  Gottschalk, 
the  man  is  an  amateur.  Let  him  go  back 
to  the  conservatory  for  a  couple  of  years. 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN 

\_Looking  at  his  programme.^ 

Next  comes  the  skirt-so.  I  hope  it  has 
some  tune  in  it. 

THE  VIRGIN 

The  adagio  is  love's  agony,  but  the 
scherzo  is  love  triumphant.  What  beauti- 
ful eyes  he  has !  And  how  pale  he  is  ! 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 

[Resuming  his  grim  toil.'] 

Well,  there's  half  of  it  over.     But  this 
scherzo  is  ticklish  business.     That  horrible 
evening  in  Prague— will  I  ever  forget  it? 
Those  hisses— and  the  papers  next  day ! 
[28] 


ONE  OF  THE  MEN 

Go    it,    professor!       That's    the    best 
you've  done  yet ! 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS 

Too  fast ! 

ANOTHER  CRITIC 

Too  slow ! 

A  YOUNG  GIRL 

My,  but  ain't  the  professor  just  full  of 
talent ! 

THE  GREAT   PIANIST 

Well,  so  far  no  accident. 

\_He  negotiates  a  difficult  passage,  and  plays 
it  triumphantly,  but  at  some  expendi- 
ture of  cold  perspiration.  ] 

What  a  hellish  way  for  a  man  to  make 
a  living ! 

[29] 


THE  VIRGIN 

What  passion  he  puts  into  it !     His  soul 
is  in  his  finger  tips. 

A  CRITIC 
A  human  pianola ! 


THE  GREAT  PIANIST 
This  scherzo  always  fetches  the  women. 
I  can  hear  them  draw  long  breaths.  That 
plump  girl  is  getting  pale.  Well,  why 
shouldn't  she  ?  I  suppose  I'm  about  the 
best  pianist  she  has  ever  heard— or  ever 
will  hear.  What  people  can  see  in  that 
Hambourg  fellow  I  never  could  imagine. 
In  Chopin,  Schumann,  Grieg,  you  might 
fairly  say  he's  pretty  good.  But  it  takes 
an  artist  to  play  Beethoven. 

[He   rattles  on  to  the  end  of  the  scherzo  and 
there  is  more  applause.  Then  he  dashes 
into  the  finale '.] 

[30] 


THE  DEAN  OF  THE  CRITICS 

Too  loud!  Too  loud!  It  sounds  like 
an  ash -cart  going  down  an  alley0.  But 
what  can  you  expect  ?  Piano  playing  is  a 
lost  art.  Paderewski  ruined  it. 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST 
I  ought  to  clear  200,000  marks  by  this 
tournee..  If  it  weren't  for  those  thieving 
agents  and  hotel-keepers,  I'd  make  300,000. 
Just  think  of  it-— twenty-four  marks  a  day 
for  a  room  !  That's  the  way  these  Ame- 
ricans treat  a  visiting  artist !  The  country 
is  worse  than  Bulgaria.  I  was  treated 
better  at  Bucharest.  Well,  it  won't  last 
forever.  As  soon  as  I  get  enough  of  their 
money  they'll  see  me  no  more.  Vienna 
is  the  place  to  settle  down.  A  nice  studio 
at  50  marks  a  month-— and  the  life  of  a 
gentleman.  What  was  the  name  of  that 
red-cheeked  little  girl  in  the  cafe  on  the 
Franzjosefstrasse— that  girl  with  the  gold 
tooth  and  the  silk  stockings  ?  I'll  have  to 
look  her  up. 

[311 


THE  VIRGIN 

What  an  artist !  What  a  master !  What 
a — 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN 

Has  he  really  suffered,  or  is  it  just  in* 
tuition  ? 

THE  GREAT   PIANIST 
No,  marriage  is  a  waste  of  money.     Let 
the  other  fellow  marry  her. 

[He  approaches  the  closing  measures  of  the 
finale  J\ 

And  now  for  a  breathing  spell  and  a  swal- 
low of  beer.  American  beer !  Bah  !  But 
it's  better  than  nothing.  The  Americans 
drink  water.  Cattle  !  Animals !  Ach,  Muen- 
chen,  wie  bist  du  so  schoen! 

[As  he  concludes   there   is   a  whirlwind  of 
applause  and  he  is  forced  to  bow  a- 
gain  and  again.     Finally,  he  is  per- 
[32] 


mitted  to  retire,  and  the  audience  pre- 
pares to  spend  the  short  intermission 
in  whispering,  grunting,  wriggling, 
scraping  its  feet,  rattling  its  pro- 
grammes and  gaping  at  hats.  The 
Six  Musical  Critics  and  Six  Other 
Men,  their  lips  parched  and  their  eyes 
staring,  gallop  for  the  door.  As  the 
Great  Pianist  comes  from  the  stage, 
the  Janitor  meets  him  with  a  large 
glass  of  beer.  He  seizes  it  eagerly 
and  downs  it  at  a  gulpJ\ 


THE   JANITOR 

My,  but  them    professors    can  put  the 
stuff  away  ! 


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